


(so cold) in the dark

by lyn452



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Depression, F/M, Jonerys Valentine's Week, Slavery, Smut, Songfic, Stranger Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 03:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyn452/pseuds/lyn452
Summary: Two-Shot, Using Prompts:February 17 - Love SongsFebruary 18 - Stranger SexPart 1 - Love Songs: When Jon leaves the Night’s Watch after being killed, he heads to Essos. Despite not having anything resembling a plan, nothing goes to plan anyway.





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> Playing very fast and loose with the timeline (read: I changed things as needed to make my story work and provided no context or explanation.) Jon also might be a little OOC, but I also always thought that Jon should have been a bit more screwed up a bit longer from being brought back from the dead. It’ll probably be better in the books where we can read his thoughts, but that’s my thin justification for making him act in a way he might not normally.
> 
> Song: in the dark by Bring Me The Horizon (Yep, that’s the love song I picked, which should give you a good idea as to the kind of story this is going to be.)

 

 

_Oh, I've done it again_

_Dug a little deep, and it's all caved in_

_Now I free fall in a black hole_

_I know I'm getting warm 'cause I feel so cold_

_But I'm looking on the bright side now_

_Trying to figure out somehow (None of this is real, no)_

_It's looking like a write off now_

_I think we need to talk, like, now_

 

_So don't swear to God, He never asked you_

_It's not his heart you drove a knife through_

_It's not his world you turned inside out_

_Not his tears still rolling down_

_Jesus Christ, you're so damn cold_

_Don't you know you've lost control?_

_Forget about the things you think I know_

_No secrets, you can't keep me_

_(in the dark, in the dark)_

 

* * *

 

Jon barely remembered how he had gotten on this boat. Didn’t really know what decisions he’d made since his brothers killed him that led him to this moment. All he knew was that the warm breeze felt foreign on his skin. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt warm. Had he ever felt that way? The cold at the wall had a way of sinking into your very bones, and even warm summer days at Winterfell had still required long sleeves.

He needed more to drink. He stumbled towards to the cask, earning a glare from the man he’d bumped into in the process. Jon didn’t care. He’d died once already, let it come again. He missed the peace.

The wine dribbled down his chin, driblets running through his beard. He didn’t bother wiping his mouth. Instead he tipped his head back, trying to enjoy the warmth of the sun’s rays on his face. Foreign tongues argued and Jon noticed a few of the men pointing at him.

He took another drink. What did they want?

His mind was too muddled to know or guess. They had murdered him. His brothers, the men he’d vowed to serve beside, they had murdered him for letting other men live. For choosing life over death. He mumbled part of the vows, “I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.”

The dead, men of ice were coming for them all and he was running away. His watch was ended, he justified to himself, but Ser Davos’ parting words echoed in Jon’s mind, “You were brought back for a greater reason than getting warm. You cannot run. You know that you must fight. You are still the shield that guards the realms of men.”

Was that true?

Jon’s thoughts were interrupted when the boat stopped suddenly, throwing him forward. He dropped his wine, shattering the cask and splattering red wine like blood. Slowly, he pulled himself back up, steadying himself.

Then he noticed he was surrounded by the men he’d seen speaking earlier. Before he had time to react one punched him, forcing his head left. Jon tried to fight back. He kicked and hit and made it hard for them to capture him. He even managed to kill one of them.

What he didn’t know was that the other men didn’t care. They saw it as one less cut in the profit. Those men recognized the possible profit the lost man presented for them. The Meereen fighting pits were open again and this one seemed destined for them. If he didn’t know his own destiny, no longer cared about his life, they would give him a path to follow.

 

* * *

 

Jon could feel the bruises on his face, could feel the cut on his lips. When the slaver roughly grabbed his chin to get a better look at what he was buying, Jon had to repress the urge to wince in pain. The chains around his wrists and ankles were heavy and his legs ached from the forced march. He wondered where he was.

The slaver let go and said something to one of the men (presumably the leader) in a language Jon didn’t understand.

Then another slaver stepped forward, speaking in the common tongue. “I don’t know, he’s pretty enough to go to a pleasure house.” The man stepped forward, leering at Jon’s half naked body.

When presenting him, those selling him decided that his best look would be in a loincloth. Jon hated it. The nudity was bad enough, but what really bothered him was looking down and seeing the evidence of what had been done to him. Seeing the not quite healed scars. He wanted to hide them forever.

This man ignored his chest, grabbing his ass instead. The man’s breath was rotten and Jon snarled at him, trying to attack but the chains wouldn’t let him. The slaver grinned, “What do you say, slave? Wouldn’t you rather make me money fucking rather than fighting?”

Jon spit on the man in response. He whipped him for his insolence. The other slaver stepped forward, stopping a second blow. “No, this one’s mine. Don’t damage him.” His sharp brown eyes looked Jon over the way a man appraised a horse. They stopped on the bright red marks on Jon’s chest. Jon was numb to the impersonal appraisal.

“See those scars? This one’s a fighter.” The slaver’s gold teeth gleamed, as he held out a pouch to the men who were selling Jon.

Jon tried to feel the righteous fury that had filled him before, but now that the deal was done, he found he just didn’t care. He’d only ever shown his value through fighting -- why would Essos be any different than Westeros? He only wished they’d give him his booze back.

Perhaps fighting would help him feel again. Violence had always made his blood sing, even though he’d never liked it.

 

* * *

 

There was no training, which surprised Jon. He figured masters at least tried to protect their human investments. Instead he was just thrown into a pit with six other fighters and given no instruction beyond, “Let’s see if your worth what I paid for you, boy.”

Part of Jon wanted to throw down the dull short sword they’d thrust in his hand before he went out into the pit, just to piss off his new “master.” But as the first opponent he met stabbed at him with a trident, Jon’s survival instinct and extensive training kicked in, as he ducked the blow and parried it with his sword.

Jon had never really seen anyone battle with a trident before. The Ironborn had them, and Theon had once bragged about fighting with one, but as far as Jon knew, they all used swords in real fighting, like everyone else in Westeros. He wasn’t really able to appreciate the different weapon now, and he suspected his opponent wasn’t really used to the three pronged spear. He wielded it like a club, which Jon suspected was not actually how tridents were meant to be used.

The sword he had was of poor quality and unbalanced. Jon wondered what had happened to Longclaw -- had he brought it with him on the boat? His mind ached. He shouldn’t have drank so much.

The trident fighter swung his weapon at Jon, which Jon ducked and then he lunged in to stab the man. He managed to catch him under his ribs, Jon brought the sword down, spilling the other man’s guts out on the sand.

Davos, Jon remembered. He’d left Longclaw with Ser Davos. The old man had wanted to come along, protect him and watch his back, but Jon had insisted he didn’t need him. The thought now made him chuckle; he should have let the old smuggler come with, he wouldn’t have let Jon get sold into slavery. Jon doubted Davos spoke the languages of Essos, but he did speak the language of thieves, which was far more universal.

Jon had left Ghost behind as well. A man with a spear charged him, yelling wildly, giving Jon far too much warning. He was ready when the other man came, attempting to stab him, but without any skill. Jon was reminded of his first days at the wall, battling with a bunch of boys who didn’t know the first thing about fighting.

He won easily.

Jon decided to begin seeking out his prey, picking the closest man to him. A huge man with a nasty scar across his back, he had no weapons, but Jon suspected if the man managed to catch him, he wouldn’t need him. He adjusted his grip on his sword and attacked.

Fighting and killing were second nature to him. Jon had been raised to be a warrior and his instincts didn’t let him down even now. Death apparently couldn’t affect muscle memory.

He was quick enough to avoid the large man’s blows and attempts to grip him. Jon kept slashing the other man, little wounds meant to slow him down. When the man’s skin was covered in blood, Jon finally made the killing blow.

Jon hadn’t been thinking before. He had just wanted to leave Westeros. He boarded the first ship he found headed to Essos, leaving everything else behind. He saw now he probably should have taken a day or two to think it all through, but it was too late for practicality now.

But he had no time to think long on regrets in the fighting pit. It was just down to him and one other now. The other man had a bloodied corpse at his feet and his own hands were coated in blood along with his mouth. Jon noticed on a closer look that the man he faced now had ripped out his last victim’s throat with his own teeth.

Jon felt no fear. Let death come. He walked across the sand in sandals he’d never worn before. It was odd to feel the ground with some form of sole on.

The sand itself was different than the snow Jon was used to. It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t hot either. It was strange, foreign to him. Not that there was no sand in the north, but it was more sandy dirt than this pure sand of Essos.

Blood didn’t melt and stain sand like it did with snow, instead the sand absorbed it. His opponent growled at him, showing off his bloodied teeth, trying to scare Jon. But Jon didn’t react. He merely stood, sword at his side, waiting for the attack. There was no expression on his face.

This clearly unnerved the other man. Jon moved forward, his sword up and his eyes sharp. The other man threw a punch, which Jon rolled to get under. Then he stabbed upwards with his sword, catching the other man under his ribs.

Before he could bring the cut home the other man spun, and in his surprise, Jon let him take his sword (still sticking out of his side) with him. Jon rolled away, looking around for another weapon to arm himself with and quickly.

The man took the sword from his side, blood gushing out from the now open wound. Jon found a broken spear and decided it was good enough. He stayed crouched, ready to lash out at his first opportunity.

The other man ignored him, turning to the crowd instead, lifting his arms to their cheers, playing to them. Jon wondered how many fights this man had been in before today. He clearly knew what this sport required.

Jon scoffed at the idea of this as sport. It was killing, plain and simple.

He could tell the other man was waiting for him to attack while his back was turned, so Jon stayed back, making his opponent come to him. Ser Rodrik’s words echoed in Jon’s mind, “Never do what your opponent expects you to do. Always make it harder for him to beat you, not easier.”

Jon waited. He could tell this man was the type with no patience. So he let him attack when he was fed up with waiting.

Jon was not disappointed. The man came in, swinging wildly. Jon avoided the blade and sliced the back of the man’s knee. He swung around the man, before aiming the spear tip at the man’s throat.

Before dying the man managed one wild blow, cutting Jon on the arm, giving him one more scar.

What was one more scar?

 

* * *

 

Terro Haazar. Jon learned that was the name of the man who now owned him. He had been pleased by Jon’s fighting. He continued to put Jon into fights, prepping him for Meereen, he kept telling him. Jon didn’t care. He thought of escape, but where would he go in this foreign land?

Haazar was good at what he did, keeping fighting slaves. He picked his men well and broke them fast, or picked men who were already broken. Knew when to let men go, either to their deaths or retirements as rich men. He studied opponents, made calculated risks. The man was no fool and in some ways reminded Jon of all the great leaders he’d known.

Jeor Mormont. Aemon Targaryen. Mance Rayder. His father. His brother.

Jon tried not to think of home too often. He focused just on the fighting, the killing, getting lost in the mindlessness. He knew it wasn’t healthy, knew it was wrong, but he just couldn’t let himself care. Caring just got you killed, murdered and bleeding out in the snow.

He wished he didn’t remember any of it. The nightmares were the worst part. Every night, Jon died again. Every night he heard Ghost howl. Every night. It was killing him all over again.

Sometimes he worried he’d come back wrong. He wasn’t like this before. He had never liked killing, still didn’t, but it no longer affected the way it might have. He refused to think about what was happening in Westeros. Never let himself linger on the fact that the Boltons held Winterfell or the dead were marching towards the wall. Such thoughts only compelled his sense of duty.

Jon’s duty had ending that night, bleeding out in the snow.

Now, he only thought of sand. He only saw blood absorbed and hardened in the tan of a desert.

Jon’s reputation as a fighter was growing, and he had a new name: the Living Dead Man. His scars and his way of fighting made audiences think he was more dead than alive.He couldn’t argue against this idea.

Jon thought of what he’d seen beyond the wall, the real living dead that were coming for his home. He wished he could make himself care. He knew he should care. He had once cared so much. And where had all that caring gotten him? Murdered. Better to feel nothing.

The world was shit anyway, let it die.

 

* * *

 

Haazar’s gold teeth gleamed as he addressed his fighting slaves. Jon barely listened, looking out at the sliver of light coming from the small rectangle of an opening to the outside world. He could hear a crowd, larger than he was used to.

“...the queen of Meereen. She’s soft, but she will feed slaves who don’t entertain her to her dragons. Do not disappoint her.”

Queen. Dragons. Jon began to listen. But Haazar’s speech was finished and he was walking away, probably to take his seat in the crowd. Jon remembered that the Targaryen queen supposedly had dragons. Was that who he was talking about?

She was supposed to be beautiful. Jon had always wondered what a real Targaryen would look like. Their looks were always described as other-worldly.

Jon guessed it was all bullshit. Royal families always spread such tales. Who would argue against them? Still, part of him still wondered.

But his mind wasn’t allowed to drift long. A slave (or servant, he’d heard slavery was no longer allowed in Meereen despite his own status) began to strap armor to him. Jon had “earned” some Westerosi armor. It was supposed to add to his image. Jon hated it. It just slowed him down.

He was tired. He was warm now, but he hadn’t wanted to spend his life fighting. Was this what he wanted? He knew it wasn’t, but then what had he been after?

What did Jon want?

Before he could even attempt to answer that question, he was order to stand. It was time show his worth once more, in the pits.

 

* * *

 

The match was tougher than Jon was used to. The warriors he’d faced actually had some skill. Still nothing compared to Jon, especially now that he was allowed to use a proper long sword. It didn’t take long for him to be the last man standing.

The crowd cheered for him. Jon didn’t court them, didn’t play it up for them the way other fighters did. He knew Haazar wished he would play the game better, but Jon was over such things. He wasn’t quite ready to throw his sword down and let death take him, but he was also not looking for ways to extend his life either.

He looked to his master, glared at him. For a moment, Jon imagined leaping up through the crowd and cutting the man down. He was sure it would get him killed by the guards surrounding the arena, but it might be worth it. The world would be better with one less slaver in it, Jon was sure.

Someone was speaking and Jon turned to look at them. He had no idea who the man talking was, but he was on the royal podium, so he guessed that must make the man important. He was speaking in Valyrian, so Jon didn’t understand what he was saying, but he watched passively.

Until he saw the woman seated next to the talking man. Jon wasn’t sure he’d ever seen such a beautiful woman before. Her hair was so light, it looked like spun silver in the bright sunlight. And her eyes were violet. Jon could feel his heart, which had seemed dead since it had been stabbed begin to beat again.

She stood up, cutting off the man mid-sentence. Jon had to repress the urge to smirk. Now he knew who had the power here. She looked straight at him. Jon refused to give an inch. She still said nothing, but her power alone made the arena go silent. The man next to her returned to his seat.

Jon finally realized he knew this woman. In her white dress, she resembled the sun more than a person, and her otherworldly looks contributed to such an image. She was a Targaryen, the last one, Daenerys Stormborn. She was the queen of Meereen Haazar had been speaking of. 

Looking at the queen, Aemon Targaryen filled Jon’s mind and suddenly he felt a sharp stab of guilt. What would have the old man thought of his actions? Aemon Targaryen had endured much more pain and suffering than Jon did.

But then again, even in his long life, he never was murdered and brought back to life. He stayed hidden away in the library, he had never taken on the mantle of Lord Commander, never known the stress of that responsibility. Jon continued to justify his actions to himself until a beautiful voice interrupted them.

The queen was speaking. Jon was a bit hypnotized by her beauty and royal baring. He didn’t really hear her words though, his wolf’s blood was still hot. His body still prepared for another fight. His mind tried to make him focus, to hear her.

She looked like him, he realized. Just as unemotional. He wondered if she was as lost as he was in this strange land. Her first words were in Valyrian, but then she looked at him and translated them into the common tongue. His reward for his bravery and skill in the arena was his freedom.

Jon frowned. He looked up to the podium to the beautiful woman who was giving him his freedom. Didn’t she realize it was a cruelty to him? He just wanted to die. He should have stayed dead. Why couldn’t she just leave him be? Why couldn’t the gods just let him go?


	2. Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 18 - Stranger Sex  
> Part 2 - Stranger Sex: Daenerys could admit she liked the look of the pretty fighter, but she still didn’t like that the masters assumed the only reason she freed him was to have her way with him. She was trying to fit in, respect their culture and traditions, but she still thought their world was better off gone.

 

_Deathblow, look at you go_

_Guess my fairytale has a few plot holes_

_Well, I'm looking on the bright side now_

_Trying to figure out somehow (None of this is real, no)_

_You can give the act up now_

_Go ahead and take a bow_

 

_So don't swear to God, He never asked you_

_It's not his heart you drove a knife through_

_It's not his world you turned inside out_

_Not his tears still rolling down_

_Jesus Christ, you're so damn cold_

_Don't you know you've lost control?_

_Forget about the things you think I know_

_No secrets, you can't keep me_

_(In the dark, in the dark)_

_No secrets, you can't keep me_

_(In the dark, in the dark)_

 

_I'm not looking for salvation_

_Just a little faith in anyone or anything_

_I'm not looking for salvation_

_Just a little faith in anyone or anything_

_I'm not looking for salvation (Oh no, could this all come caving in?)_

 

* * *

 

Daenerys let the wine run down her throat, warming her. She hated these gatherings. But her dear husband insisted they were just as necessary as reopening the fighting pits. Sometimes Daenerys wished she had just fed Hizdahr zo Loraq to her dragons as she had other masters.

But she could not rule like that. She had to find a balance. She just wasn’t sure she had found it. Had she allowed too much? Had she given away too much? Or was this all right and she was just questioning herself because of her own inexperience?

She knew she had to grow and learn to be a better ruler, that she couldn’t just expect to know how to rule instinctively, whatever her blood. But Daenerys still wondered if maybe she was missing something that other Tagaryens had possessed.

“When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin,” Daenerys remembered the phrase. She had always assumed it had come up for greatness for her, but sometimes she wondered if she’d been infected with the madness that had consumed her brother and father.

She placed such feelings aside, she could examine them later. Right now she had to look the part of the fearsome Dragon Queen, after all, many of her “distinguished guests” would love a chance to kill her.

Let them try, she thought. Robert Baratheon couldn’t get the job done, and she doubted any of these men would be able to either.

She finished her wine. Then moved to stand by her husband. She wanted to go to bed and was wondering how long she had to stay here not looking too bored before she could leave. Hizdahr was talking about the matches they watched today, insisting that he could predict the outcome of every match as soon as the fighters stepped into the ring.

Bullshit, Daenerys thought as she grabbed another glass of wine. He had pronounced that “Living Dead Man” too little and no threat to anyone, and he was the best fighter there. Daenerys kept her mouth shut though, not wanting to encourage the discussion and have anyone think she was actually interested in this “sport.”

Still Hizdahr kept talking about the fights and the fighters. Daenerys ignored him until one of the other masters smirked at her and said, “Our queen clearly had a favorite fighter today.”

The other men chuckled, making Daenerys defensive. Still, she forced a smile. “What do you mean?”

“The living dead man,” the master answered. “You freed him, which Terro is quite upset about, he’d had plans for his champion.”

Daenerys took a long sip of wine. “No man should be a slave.”

Another master spoke up, “Many of the fighters are enjoyed by rich women as much as any men enjoy the fights.”

“He’s pretty enough for that,” another chuckled.

“I supposed the queen will have her living dead man bring her back to life in the bed chamber tonight.” A drunken master roared to the laughter of all.

Daenerys looked to her husband to stop this, but Hizdahr said nothing. She nearly rolled her eyes at his uselessness. Why had she ever married him?

She nearly replied with a harsh truth, at least a living dead man would please her in bed far more than her husband. But she held her tongue, understanding that the masters wouldn’t want one of their own disparaged. Instead she kept her false smile, “Queens do as they please”

More laughter and Daenerys walked away, searching for Missandei. Her friend was nearby, and Daenerys finished her second glass of wine. “Please tell me I’m almost done here.”

Missandei gave her queen a pitying look. “Entertainment has been arranged. It would be unwise to not attend.” She gave her queen a small smile and an encouraging squeeze of the hand. “It should be starting soon though, and you should be able to retire after that.”

Daenerys steeled herself for the remainder of the night.

 

* * *

 

When she was finally allowed to retire, Daenerys wasn’t surprised that her husband wouldn’t be joining her. She would have ordered him away if he’d tried, in no mood to pretend to care about producing an heir with him. She would never bare Hizdahr’s child, even if her womb wasn’t cursed.

She began to undo her braids as she entered her chambers, not bothering to check her surroundings. She sat at her vanity and it was in her mirror that she saw him.

Daenerys spun, ready to call out to her guards, but then she recognized the man. The living dead man. He looked bored and resigned.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, half-standing. Her mind scrambled for an answer. Then she noticed what he was wearing, not the armor of a pit fighter, but the loincloth of a pleasure slave.

Daenerys repressed her rage. It was the masters’ idea of a joke, sending the pretty fighter she singled out for freedom to service her. It was putting her in her place as a frivolous rich woman rather than the conqueror she was.

She crossed her arms, trying to keep her emotions contained. “You may go. You’re a free man. You don’t have to do what the masters tell you any more.”

He either didn’t hear her or just wasn’t listening. He kept looking at her, studying her with dead grey eyes. Daenerys felt uncomfortable under such a gaze but refused to show it. She was also getting annoyed by his refusal to speak.

Daenerys knew she could force the issue, but she already didn’t like using him the way the masters expected her to. She could feel the eyes on her at all times. This foreign whore who’d destroyed their world. They were looking for any excuse to destroy her in turn.

Needing something to do, she walked over to the bar in her room and poured herself some wine. The she returned to her vanity, sitting down facing away from her mirror to face the man in her room instead.

She drank her wine, wanting to get lost in the numb comfort of the red liquid. She noticed the man looking at the wine longing. She waved a hand to it, “Help yourself.” Perhaps it would loosen his tongue if nothing else.

He strode over to the table and didn’t even bother with the glass, drinking straight from the bottle. Daenerys pursed her lips at the behavior but didn’t correct it.

She waited for him to finish, which to him, apparently, meant finishing the bottle. Daenerys raised an eyebrow at this. When he glanced her way, he did look a bit sheepish, but it didn’t take long for him to drop back into emotionless.

Daenerys finished her wine, setting the glass behind her. “Once again, why are you here?”

“I know what’s expected of me,” the living dead man answered gruffly.

His voice surprised Daenerys. “What is that accent?” It almost sounded like a northern brogue, almost like Jorah, like her dream lover.

“That doesn’t matter.” He began to strip.

She stopped him, first with a wave of her hand and when that didn’t work, by touching him. He flinched away even though her touch had been light. What had horrors had happened to this man? She asked him gently, “What is your name?”

He seemed confused by the question for a moment. Then he answered, “Jon Snow.”

Snow. Daenerys remembered that Snow was the surname given to northern bastards. So he was from the North like Jorah.

She stopped him. “You’re from Westeros, like me. How did you come to be here?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. It sounded like the truth. She looked to her bar. She was out of wine now, and didn’t want to send out for more. Daenerys walked to her bed, sitting on its edge.

Daenerys studied his half naked body. He was very attractive this Jon Snow. “I would think a man of Westeros would have resisted slavery a bit more.” Missandei had told Daenerys of Naath’s passive approach that made them prime for slavers, but Westeros wasn’t like that. Jorah had been under a sentence of death for participating in the slave trade. So why did this man just passively accept it?

He said nothing but walked out to the patio. “Is it true?” he asked so quietly Daenerys almost didn’t hear him. “Is it true you have dragons?”

Daenerys heart ached at the thought of her children. Two chained up and Drogon out there somewhere. “Yes, it’s true,” she answered just as quietly.

“I would like to see them someday. Dragons.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I always wanted to see a dragon.”

Daenerys stood again, she approached Jon slowly, like she did her children. She didn’t want him to be spooked, moreso she didn’t want him to hurt her. He merely looked out at the city of Meereen. “It’s so big,” he said.

“Does the north not have cities?”

Jon nodded. “White Harbor, but I’ve never seen it.”

“So what have you seen?”

He clamped up again. Daenerys looked out over the city she was queen of. She was queen of so many places she had so little knowledge of. Slaver’s Bay was foreign to her, and Westeros was a tale her brother told her more than an actual home. The wind gave her a chill and Daenerys wrapped her arms around herself.

“It’s so warm here,” Jon said.

Daenerys turned to look at him. He was so attractive. She knew it might be foolish, but what did she have to lose? She wanted him and he was here for the taking. Daario was still away and she missed him, or at least the pleasure and distraction he provided her, but she figured Jon Snow would do just as well.

It wasn’t like she would force him, he could walk away. She reached her hand out and pushed a curl of raven hair behind his ear. His eyes closed and he leaned into the touch. Daenerys kept her hand on his face, cradling him.

“Would you like to spend the night with me, Jon Snow?” He stayed silent, so Daenerys continued explaining. “I do not expect anything of you, and you are free to do as you want. But I would like you to stay.”

Jon looked at her, smoldered at her really. His pupils had nearly overtaken his irises.

He stepped forward and kissed her. Daenerys felt herself bend back as his tongue invaded her mouth. Instinctively her hands dove into his curls, her fingers curling and pulling on his hair. He nipped at her lips in retaliation.

She had expected him to be a bit more passive, but she liked this aggression better. He clutched at her neck as though she would leave if he didn’t hold her in place. Daenerys had no desire to be anywhere but where she was.

Jon bent down and swept her legs up into his arms and carried her to the bed, bridal style. He threw her down and looked lost for a moment. Like he didn’t know what to do next.

Daenerys wondered about that. He was too pretty not be experienced, but still she kneeled and removed the only piece of cloth he wore. She stared at him, proud and jutting out. Daenerys nearly licked her lips at the sight of him.

It had been too long. She needed this, hadn’t realized just how badly until this moment, like when you go so long without food, you forget you’re hungry.

She grabbed him, stroking him, as she kissed his neck. Jon groaned. His hands instinctively came up, but he stopped himself from touching her. They hovered just over her arms. Daenerys bit his neck gently before soothing the love bites with her tongue. She made her way up to his ears, nibbling and licking. When she took his earlobe into her mouth, Jon groaned again.

Daenerys stuck her tongue into his ear and then whispered, “Touch me.”

He needed no more than that for permission. Jon crushed her to him, and forced her hand away. He hugged her, kissing whatever part of her was nearest to his mouth. Eventually, he forced her down, his large hand tugging at her silk bands.

But he clearly didn’t know how to remove the garment, and Daenerys liked this dress too much to let him rip it. She removed his hands, “Wait, stop.”

He immediately stilled and began to back off, but Daenerys didn’t let him. She realized what she’d said and clarified, “No, I just like this garment. I don’t want you ripping it off.” She let one of his hands go, so that she could reach behind her and undo the tie at her neck.

Then she took his hand back and guided them both to unpeel her from her silks. Jon looked at her as though she were a goddess. She thought he looked like a god himself, though the scars marred his beauty.

She idly wondered where he’d gotten them. Feeling the nasty one over his heart as they kissed again, and how did he survive them?

It didn’t matter, she supposed. Daenerys let her knees spread as Jon fit himself between them. He touched every inch of her that he could as they continued to kiss. He massaged her breasts and then let his hands go lower.

His fingers were clever and Daenerys had to pull her mouth from his to gasp and scream. He continued to kiss her neck as she came down from her high.

Daenerys grabbed him and positioned him at her entrance. One thrust and he was driven home.

It felt heavenly. Daenerys had always enjoyed this, but she hadn’t expected the living dead man to be this good in bed. She continued to kiss him, addicted to his lips.

His thrusts were gentle and rolling, like it was more than sex. It almost felt real, it was almost love-making. In another life, Daenerys thought. In a better world, maybe she could have loved this man.

She brought her fingers down to work her clit so that she could get off once more, but as soon as he realized what she was doing, his fingers took over the work for her. It was sweet, in its way. Perhaps she should keep this man, this Jon Snow.

Daenerys came with cry, turning her closed eyes away from her lover. She continued to roll her hips to ride the waves of pleasure and encourage him to finish. She might need to find some moon tea come morning, but then, who cared? Her womb would never quicken with a living child again. Those were the witch’s words.

Jon didn’t seem to notice her dark thoughts, as he chased his own end. He shuddered above her with his own climax. Daenerys waited for him to remove his weight, but he didn’t move and he was still shaking. She opened her eyes. His head was turned away but she moved around to see what was happening.

He was crying. No, he was sobbing. Soul-cleansing sobs. Instinctively Daenerys comforted him, drawing his face to her bosom. Jon needed no prodding and clung to her as he would a piece of floating driftwood in a turbulent sea.

Daenerys didn’t know how to feel about this. She didn’t know this man. It was meant to be a night of pleasure with little meaning, but what was this? She felt her own tears track down her cheeks at the sound. How had her life come to this?

Daenerys Targaryen comforted Jon Snow like the mother he never had. The conversations and confessions would come after. He would tell her his pitiful life story and she would listen. He would cling to her and she would let him.

She had been a savior to so many freed slaves, what was one more?


End file.
